Fear The Reaper
by elleffsee
Summary: Clint's bored, horny, and Natasha isn't around to save him from either.


It's raining again.

It's a thought that really isn't all that surprising. _Of course it's raining, it's fucking England. It always rains._

Clint isn't surprised by that. He is, however, somewhat surprised by the fact that, for the first time in quite a while, he's actually bored. Not bored in the way that Tony or Bruce would get bored and then go play with their little chemistry sets. Not bored in the way that Cap would go workout or go volunteer for charity runs or something. Not bored in the way that Thor would feel the need to regale them all with legends of Norse mythology and how his uncle really did do all those things. Not bored in the way Loki would end a race of people just for his own amusement.

He's sitting on a hotel room balcony, not the one that belongs to his room because—for reasons that he doesn't quite know but has a good guess Stark had something to do with—he didn't get a balcony in the first place. He's got one leg up on the little table that someone had enough cheek to put a small vase with a fake flower in it on; his other leg is on the concrete patio floor and he's staring across the cityscape of London. The overhang from the room above him's balcony is covering just enough of this balcony to keep the majority of the rain away from him, but his shoes are getting damp. Clint didn't really care to move, though.

He doesn't really want to think about why he's bored, but he can't stop himself. He knows exactly what the real reason is. It's because _she_'s not around. It would be one thing to be waiting around for a mark, doing his job, and being that kind of bored. But the bored he felt due to Natasha's absence was a whole other kind of pathetic.

Clint had a boner again.

Red hair tangled in his hands. Lusciously pink lips wrapped around his cock while wicked green eyes seemingly smirked up at him. Pristine white teeth that teased him in her mouth. And that tongue…that torturous tongue that sent him screaming her name.

He was bored. And horny. And fuck if he hadn't seen Natasha in ages.

That was something else that was bothering him. He _hadn't_ seen her in ages. He wasn't sure where she had gone, or what she was up to. All he knew was that wherever she had gone it was 'top secret' and SHEILD weren't talking about it. Fury had even stopped allowing him entry to his office whenever he returned from a mission now. Mariah kept telling him "Agent Romanoff is still on assignment" and that would be all. Clint hated them all a little bit for keeping her away from hm. He hated himself a little more for missing her.

He was compromised.

Hell, he'd _been_ compromised since he met her. One look at Natasha Romanova and he had been lost. Never had he thought he would become one of _those_ guys—the ones that became suckers over a woman and then ended up drinking themselves into an early grave when they got divorced ten years after the house with the white fence and the two-point-five kids grew up and moved out and she started running around with Lance the new insurance agent for the small-town life insurance company who can actually afford to be frisky because he's three years out of college and hasn't had a day's worth of responsibility in his life—no, he wasn't going to be one of those cynical old farts who ended up dying alone over a woman.

Except that he was quickly turning into one of them.

Natasha had a dangerous vibe around her; not only because of what she was capable of, or could do with her incredibly intelligent mind, lithe body, and dangerous habits, but because she was _fun_. She could take the jokes and dish them out with him; she could keep him occupied on stakeouts. She could also keep him focused on the mission and not her ass, despite the fact he might have to save hers and his on occasion. He got to play the hero and actually be one, but she was no heroine or princess to be saved. Natasha was a hero as well, and he loved her for it. Natasha was more than his partner, his lover, his friend; she was his _buddy_, the one he would go out and get pissed drunk with and help sway home together.

In another life, Clint would've married her and they could've lived alone together and been happy as clams in the sea. But that would've been possible only if they were normal people. And there was nothing about their lives that was anything remotely around normal's neighborhood.

Normal people didn't go around killing people for work. Normal people didn't hang out with super geniuses or super soldiers or walking Norse myths. Normal people didn't get to play with guns and beat up bad-guys for a living. Normal people didn't get to steal, swindle, break and enter, jack a car, fuck shit up, or anything remotely like that every day. They didn't get to steal someone else's balcony in a posh London hotel simply cause they were bored with the really stupid British TV show's about some doctor and a blue time machine.

It wasn't often that Clint thought back to the circus and his childhood. Most of those memories were ones that didn't really matter anymore, he'd had more to replace them with, more to forget them with. He never had a normal life, why should he have a normal relationship? He couldn't sit down and talk about his childhood with anyone, not even _her_because he didn't want to bring up the dead locker from the bottom of the sea. Besides, even if he did tell her, Natasha would simply watch him and go 'so?' and he wouldn't fault her for it; he couldn't imagine the terror of the Red Room for a little girl, and he never wanted to. He didn't want to picture anyone, ever, hurting his Natasha.

Clint wanted her, not just for sex, but because he wanted to see her. He hadn't in so long he was, if he was one-hundred percent honest with himself, starting to get worried. It wasn't like her to be gone this long, or for SHIELD to hide her away. He refused to think the worst and he didn't think Fury would be cold-hearted enough to not tell him something bad had happened to her. Clint stopped himself then and there. Natasha wasn't in trouble; he would fucking_know_ something was wrong. He would know.

He felt his jaw twitch when he thought of it. People said all the time that they have an instinct when something bad happens to someone they love. Surely, with all the higher-level instincts he had in the first place, he would have that same intuition? Clint felt himself going to a place he didn't want to go down. Nat was fine. She was probably just deep undercover or something. She wasn't gone, missing, dead, or anything else. She was just fine.

Clint hoped.

He shifted, finally. His feet moved out of the path of the rain and he raised a hand to scratch his head before lowering it back to the chair. He had friends that could entertain him, but they were probably busy. If he was honest, he kind of missed the team together. New York had been _fun_, y'know, after the whole 'aliens almost kicked our ass' thing. He missed Thor's brash ignorance and unintentional humor and Cap's banter with Stark. He missed the rage monster's brains and he missed _her_ easy way of handling everyone. He missed the thrill, the chase, that rush when he helped a team succeed.

His eyes closed for the first time in hours and he leaned his head back in the chair. He thought of pale ivory curves in a clingy dress and dark red hair that fell over her shoulders. He felt his jeans tighten and he ignored the pain.

He felt something akin to an ache build in his chest. He wanted her so badly his fingers itched for her touch. He wanted her company so badly he didn't think he'd be able to stand it anymore. He wanted… He wanted.

Clint's eyes flew open and he half-leapt half-jumped out of his chair when the door to the hotel room opened behind him. He was already jumping to the level above before the unsuspecting German tourists had even noticed someone had been on their balcony. He'd made it into that hotel room and was mostly back to his own before he even realized he'd moved so fast he hadn't gotten very wet from the rain.

Clint wanted Natasha; he wanted to finally tell her how much she meant to him instead of pushing it off again. He promised himself that the next time he saw her, he would do just that instead of brushing it off as a 'well I missed you and was horny'. He didn't want to have a guilty conscious just in case something did happen one of these days. That's what he was going to tell himself at least.

Sighing as he shut the door to his room, he resigned himself to crappy British television and the ache that wasn't going away. In a while he'd take a shower and relieve part of his desperation with his hand.

That would do for now.


End file.
